


hiding from the black widow

by novoaa1



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Family, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Ceiling Vent Clint Barton, Confused Steve Rogers, Domestic Avengers, F/M, Humor, POV Steve Rogers, Shenanigans, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, assassins being children, can be read as romantic or not, clint is trying to hide, don't even try fighting me on this, idiots being idiots, it doesn't work, the avengers give each other christmas gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 13:52:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18829990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Clint tries to hide from Natasha. He really shouldn't bother.Steve just wants to drink his coffee in peace.





	hiding from the black widow

**Author's Note:**

> i love the dynamic between natasha and clint, romantic or otherwise
> 
> also steve and natasha's dynamic? fuck me uP

Steve sighed happily, sipping at the steaming mug of coffee in his grip emblazoned with the words ‘World’s Best Grandpa.’ 

 

(It’d been a Christmas gift this past year from Natasha.

 

She’d left it for him on the single nightstand in his room, a shiny red bow wrapped prettily around its middle—and, of course, because it was _Natasha_ , there was no note, no ‘Merry Christmas, Steve! Love, Natasha,’ nothing at all to indicate she’d been the benefactor… but who else?

 

He’d carefully undone the bow before padding down to breakfast, new mug in hand. 

 

When he’d entered the kitchen, she’d been barefoot, curled up atop the granite countertop in short black spandex and a loose graphic tee with a steaming mug of coffee at her side, looking almost cat-like as her intelligent green eyes tracked his approach. 

 

No one else was up, it seemed—which made sense, all things considered.

 

After all, 6am is early, even on Christmas morning.

 

He leaned on the counter opposite from her, holding up the mug in one hand. 

 

“Really?” he asked pointedly, though he didn’t bother trying to act as if he was really upset by it—he loved being the butt of Natasha’s fossil and old-man jokes, of acting disgruntled by her never-ending mirth even as it set an affectionate warmth blooming deep in his chest every single time. 

 

But Natasha just frowned slightly, her gaze unreadable as she tilted her head curiously. After a second of taking a visual effort to read the words on its side, a tiny smirk traced her features. “I like it.” 

 

Setting the mug carefully off to the side, Steve crossed his arms good-naturedly, trying not to smile. “So, are we just gonna act like this wasn’t you?”

 

Her look of confusion only grew at that, full red lips pouting slightly as she feigned innocence. “You okay, Cap?”

 

He just rolled his eyes, deciding to drop it for the morning… though he didn’t miss the way her lips quirked when he poured himself a cup of coffee with his new mug, the two of them settling in comfortable silence in the early hours of Christmas as they sipped their respective drinks.)

 

All things considered, it was a normal morning at Avengers Tower—relative silence around the building (it was only 7am), sunlight streaming through the reinforced windows, the common area littered with knives and tablets and Tony’s half-baked plans for new technology.

 

Better than normal, actually; it was peaceful—Tony wasn’t running around loudly ranting about something predictably genuis-IQ-level but undoubtedly annoying, Thor wasn’t trying to violently kill their ridiculously high-tech coffee maker (the Asgardian god couldn’t figure out for the life of him how to make it work properly), and as far as he knew, there was no impending alien apocalypse ready to rain holy hell on their planet from above.

 

It didn’t happen often, but Steve cherished mornings like these, where it felt as if the world had finally stopped—especially since it’d been moving at breakneck speed for him ever since they’d dug him out of the ice. 

 

Really, though, he probably shouldn’t have expected such a thing to last; because moments later, Natasha was stalking in (her footsteps terrifyingly soundless as always), a stormy expression on her pretty features that looked almost comical in contrast to the short pink pajama shorts and the matching off-shoulder top that had the the words ‘Feminist Icon’ bedazzled in obnoxious silver rhinestones stamped across the front (Clint’s Christmas gift to her)—the cheerful “Morning, Tasha” Steve had been planning to greet her with promptly died in his throat as she stopped just feet short of where Steve sat frozen on the couch, then proceeded to glare murderously at the ceiling as if it’d just spectacularly wronged her in some utterly unforgivable way.

 

Steve just sat, eyes wide, completely at a loss for words (though, to be fair, that had become a fairly common occurrence ever since the day he’d met Natasha Romanoff for the very first time).

 

It was silent for a long moment. 

 

In the meantime, Natasha just glared, arms stubbornly crossed against her chest—though there was a sort of patience in her unimpressed skyward gaze, like she was _waiting_ for something.

 

Just as he was finally opening his mouth to say something, like maybe _“What in the world are you doing?”_ , Natasha spoke in a low growl to the ceiling, effectively stopping him short. “Out. Now.” 

 

_Huh?_

 

“You have to promise you won’t exterminate me," came a muffled request from the ceiling vent, causing Steve to jump in his seat, because, Oh _Lord_ , what was that? 

 

Natasha’s green-eyed gaze just narrowed threateningly at the vent, the woman completely ignoring Steve altogether. “Out.”

 

“Tashaaaa,” the rumbly voice whined from above— _Definitely Barton_ , Steve realized, though his head was still spinning as he attempted desperately to understand what was happening. “Can we call a truce?”

 

“Out, or I _make_ you get out,” Natasha stated harshly.

 

There was a low echoey grumble from the vent, followed by a series of shuffling noises along with a muted _bang!_ and a hissed _“Ow!”_ even as Natasha just rolled her eyes, the redheaded assassin seeming to grow more impatient with every passing second. 

 

Eventually, the vent was swinging open, much to Steve’s open-mouthed shock—a second later, Clint Barton's disheveled and dusty form was dropping expertly from the square-shaped opening, landing silently with bare feet on the sleek granite flooring just a foot away from a stony-faced Natasha, a travel-sized pillow tucked under one arm.

 

Steve almost dropped his coffee mug: Clint was now standing there in a wrinkled purple T-shirt and dust-ridden black pajama pants dotted with tiny red hourglasses (Steve hadn’t even known they made Black Widow pajamas; he made a note to order himself a pair later), his dirty-blonde hair sticking up in various places as he blinked groggily at Natasha with a vague expression of terror on his bedraggled features.

 

Sweet Mother of Jesus, had Clint _slept_ in the vents last night?

 

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Natasha asserted calmly, _dangerously_ , not a muscle twitching in her business-like expression. “You,” Clint gulped, and Steve felt himself involuntarily doing the same (even though _he_ wasn’t the one in trouble here), “are coming with me. Right now.” 

 

Steve’s alarmed gaze darted over to the archer, who had begun bobbing his head up and down at a startlingly fast pace, the man's sharp blue eyes wide and obedient—under drastically different circumstances, Steve was sure he might’ve found the whole thing rather funny.

 

Natasha just stared Clint up and down for a moment, before nodding to herself almost imperceptibly, as if satisfied. Then she was extending a pale arm towards the halls, pointing a single finger almost menacingly. “Walk,” she ordered, her voice low and _scary_.

 

Clint did, hastily scrambling off through the doorway and around the next corner without a word. 

 

Then she was turning to Steve, her features instantly relaxing into a pleasant (frightening) expression. “Morning, Steve,” she chirped in a sugar-sweet tone, emerald-green eyes sparkling—without giving him a chance to respond, she turned swiftly on her heel to walk soundlessly down the same path Clint had disappeared on just seconds ago, leaving a thoroughly gobsmacked Steve Rogers in her wake. 

 

A blanket of uneasy silence fell over the space. 

 

After a lengthy moment of shock-triggered paralysis, Steve shifted abruptly, eyes darting this way and that as if looking for any sort of evidence that that had _really_ just happened—then, almost robotically, he lifted the mug to his lips, forcing himself to take a long gulp of lukewarm coffee. 

 

He thinks he might’ve preferred staying frozen under the ice.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know your thoughts:)
> 
> (my [tumblr](https://psyches.co.vu/))


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